i have not written
for days,
and it makes me feel
cursed!
Sick!


my head tilting,
dizzy with vertigos,
a nauseous  stirring
with words churning -
trapped.
what was that?
a sound?
a gasp, a sigh or a scream
or the desperation to bleed
words -
unless they break free from this prison
in my head.


the air lacks -
maybe some oxygen,
maybe some space,
despite deep breaths,
a familiar feeling -
the air being swallowed whole
before it can settle,
or submerging my face into water
bursting bubbles to fracture the silence.
maybe they are taking it all
maybe the 'words' are still wondering
if it's worth leaving,
if it's worth  escaping
a place that feeds them




how much do they need
to spark a flame -
burn
a wildfire in my head,
to set themselves free,
or carve open a wound
to spills through veins,
and smudging their escape
on parched plain  papers.



how many more days?
scraping tally marks on cemented walls
impatiently relying on these slow
screeches between seconds.

As the rain falls gilded Hearts are tempered. They fell together but crashed apart
Soft nothings out of reach to pamper
The drops fed my hunger but never filled my heart. That's a lie told by anger the last line.
The waters yielded flowers beautiful but weak to time
Though they bare fruit and seeds without roots it can never last as do trees
We are the soil for our love and enjoyment
We are the plow of our perseverance and faith
We are our beasts of burden and sacrifice

Creativity cannot be conjured,
Without a little madness.
It is in the crazy that we find,
the beauty beyond us.

Strokes of paint mean nothing,
without a story or emotion.
In our medium we find ourselves,
Creation and Destruction.

The world here calls me a lunatic,
An amateur, a monstrosity.
But today you label me 'crazy',
Tomorrow you label me 'visionary'.

They come to claim the carcasses
whispering sweetly underground
tentacles returning energy back to the earth
******* and spitting
pumping their wisdom into the dirt

Swaying slowly craning their heads towards the sun
These humble creatures in clusters dot the wooded bog
their work mostly undetected to human eyes
speaking in ancient languages and casting spells
carefully tending the land,
keeping the peace

mushroom mediums
between the living and the dead
pulsing with fungal renewal
holding the power
of natures neural network  
a vast information of knowledge  
unknown

So cold. I can't go on. I can't.
I tread well worn snow,
Retracing my steps, hoping to go back
To the time green grass littered the ground.

I can't go on. Not forwards.
Unknown. Unknown. I can't go on.
Not without my Mother.
Not in the shadow of my Father.

I must go on. A spectre
On a black horse tracks me, waiting.
Wants me to fall, scavenge me.
Take my body, pour dirt on it.

Give me strength. False or true
To take the steps that I must.
Like Moses in the desert,
I can't go on. I can't go on.

I'll go on

Rats! As usual, far too late.
I wish I'd found you at an earlier date.
I should have stumbled by years ago,
but I'd not yet discovered Medium, so, it seems it was not to be.
Poets Unlimited, R.I.P.

hiding behind false bravado
and an epoch of shame
twists uncertainty,
anger, and stubbornness.
this wasn't going to be a long
one but it was there to say hello.